


April

by peevee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 07:19:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peevee/pseuds/peevee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Recreational Scolding</i>, say her business cards, but there’s nothing playful about the way she wants to make him scream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	April

**Author's Note:**

> De-writers blocking myself with angry spanking. I'm hesitant to say this could maybe be read as dubcon? Possible dubcon without the sex? Tagging is hard. Anyway, Irene is definitely a bit naughty and nobody talks about what they want.

In April, in New York City, a woman slaps a homeless man in the face.

He’s slumped in front of the door to an apartment building and she stands above him, sleek in black and tan, the toes of her patent Prada mules nudging at his sleeping bag. A few people glance in the direction of the noise, before looking away quickly. They are invisible. She slaps him again, hard, with a practiced arm.

And then she falls to her knees, and kisses him.

-

It’s like a strange pastiche of their first meeting, him arranged nude on a chair in her sparse apartment, her looming over him, off-balance. He’s damp from the shower, scrubbed pink and clean-shaven.

“I thought you were dead,” she doesn’t say. That much is obvious. Everything she has to say is obvious. _I’m so angry with you. I’m so happy to see you. I didn’t know._

“You utter _prat_ ,” is what she finally says, not sure if that bubbling hysterical feeling welling in her throat is going to manifest in laughter or tears.

She manages to stifle both into his shoulder, gathering him up off the chair and into her embrace as he stands awkwardly, accepting her attentions. She kisses the skin in front of her hard enough to hurt, vicious closed mouth presses of her lips against him, clutching his naked body tight and breathing hard. He jumps when she bites his collarbone, leaving little toothy imprints in his skin, but he doesn’t protest. Just stands there, silent. Stoic.

She is furious.

Furious at him, for his arrogance, for his dismissal, for being the one person by whom she could not stand to be _rescued_ , for daring to mock her. She breathes hard through her nose and digs her nails into his back and hates him a little for the way he accepts it all without comment.

“Come here.”

He follows her to the sofa, a lost puppy doing her bidding. She wants to shake him, make him snap back at her. Punish him for underestimating her and for being right.

_This_ is all wrong, and she’s too angry for it to be anything else, but he arranges himself over her lap anyway, fingers trailing on the floor, head drooping. She flexes her fingers over his lovely round bottom, and the way he doesn’t react makes her teeth clench. She slaps him. Hard. Hard enough to make her palm sting sweetly, and she shudders out a satisfied breath.

Yes. This.

She wants to shout as she does it. To scream her frustration at him, but she’s too angry not to show him entirely too much of herself if she does. She grunts out her breaths instead, holding back nothing as she smacks her palm viciously against his buttocks again and again. There’s nothing graceful about it, nothing contained or elegant. _Recreational Scolding_ , say her business cards, but there’s nothing playful about the way she wants to make him scream.

Her palm is red and stinging, her arm aching, his pale skin a pink, blotchy mess, but nothing could coerce her to stop. She pulls her shoulder back and smacks him again, sweat prickling under her arms, beading on her upper lip and making her hair stick in whips to her face. She bares her teeth. Smacks him so hard her arm twinges in pain. He makes a little sound, and something in her tightens in triumph. It holds back the white-hot anger, just a little, and when he lets out a quiet sob it feels like a balm on her soul.

“That’s it,” she sighs, shaky, and for the first time she pauses to stroke gently over the reddened skin on his buttocks. “That’s it.”

The words are as much for herself as for him. Her heartbeat is calming a little, and she slaps him again with calculated precision, forcing a breath from his lungs. Three in a row, smack, smack, smack, and her hand is practically numb from it but her anger has almost evaporated. He’s writhing against her lap now, prick hard and human, soft needy noises escaping him. She slides her hand under his chest to tug hard at his nipples as she delivers another smack and _there_ , choked and thick, “Irene!”

“Shh,” she murmurs. She’s floating. She feels powerful, and he’s beautiful spread across her lap. Her hand tingles, the sweet sting of the slap just an echo, and she rubs it over him, feeling him shiver. The thick, choking anger has gone, and she’s left exhilarated. He’s perfect like this, sweet and squirming, and she gives him a little teasing tap just to watch him jump. He’d take everything she has to give him, so she takes pity on him and after just a few more swift smacking slaps she gathers him up off her lap and arranges them curled together on the sofa. He noses into her neck and shivers against her as she gently strokes his hair.

-

He’s walking a bit stiffly the next morning, but the few who might notice would just assume a bad night. His clothes are clean, at least, washed in the bath with her shampoo and dry from the sun. She catches him standing on her balcony and inhaling deeply from the collar of his shirt.

-

There are no questions, no offers or answers. To ask him to stay would drive him away more effectively than anything else she might say, so she doesn’t say anything. Sherlock eats a croissant at her breakfast bar and she kisses him on the mouth afterwards, slow and easy. He allows it, hands resting softly on her waist.

Irene feels light, like something that’s been trapped inside her is gone. Her palm still itches hot and she presses it to her leg as she watches him walk stiffly down her corridor.

She stands at her window as he weaves through the people down below until he’s disappeared from view, back into the belly of New York City.


End file.
